


Snowbaz at Oxford

by GallaPlacidia



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Don't worry they'll figure it out, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Get Together, Literature nerds, M/M, Normal AU, Really what it comes down to is class differences, Simon keeps hurting Baz without realising it, Slow Burn, baz is a nerd, baz isn't evil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-13 11:28:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20581754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallaPlacidia/pseuds/GallaPlacidia
Summary: Simon hates his posh Oxford suite mate. Baz can't help it that he has resting-bitch face and a voice so rich that it makes people want to start a Communist uprising. Basically, it's Carry On at Oxford without magic or plot.“You tore up my books, Pitch?”“I didn’t tear anything up, you maniac. Get off.”I spit on him. He flinches, but can’t wipe his face because I still have his hands.“Snow. I must insist you stop attacking me like this. It’s homoerotic, frankly, and I doubt that’s what you have in mind.”I leap away from him.“What?”





	1. Gifts and Misunderstandings

**Simon**

My suite mate is a some sort of Satanic creature, I swear. Milton couldn’t make this shit up. I knew Oxford was full of posh wankers, but I didn’t think I’d have to share a bathroom and sitting room with some kind of… evil duke. I don’t know. Is Baz a duke?

I come back from the library, exhausted because it’s George Eliot week, and I’ve had to read Middlemarch about three times over in the last two days.

The sitting room is trashed.

(It’s still so weird to me that I have a sitting room of my own; or at least, it’s mine when Baz and his wanky friends aren’t about. First years at my college get paired up in these suites, a nice little sitting room with adjoining bedrooms. It’s proper fancy.)

But that’s not what concerns me. Baz’s bedroom door is shut, but mine… mine is wide open. And all my stuff has been messed with. My mattress has been slashed. My books (oh God), my _books_ have been thrown all over the floor, pages torn out, the books I bought with my savings so I could get through the summer reading list. They cost a small fortune. Everything about Oxford costs a small fortune.

I hear the suite door open.

“Christ,” drawls Baz.

His voice makes something inside me swell up with rage. His impossibly expensive voice. I barrel out of my bedroom and throw myself at him.

“Snow, what the hell—” I have him under me, pinning his wrists to the ground. He looks alarmed. He’s probably expecting me to punch him again.

“You tore up my _books_, Pitch?”

“I didn’t tear anything up, you maniac. Get off.”

I spit on him. He flinches, but can’t wipe his face because I still have his hands.

“_Snow_. I must insist you stop attacking me like this. It’s homoerotic, frankly, and I doubt that’s what you have in mind.”

I leap away from him.

“What?”

He laughs (it’s not really a laugh, laughs are supposed to be nice) and pulls out a literal cloth handkerchief to wipe his cheek where I spat on him.

“Calm down, Snow, yeah?” he says, getting to his feet. “Why would I destroy my own sitting room?”

“Because you can afford to replace everything, you prick!”

He picks up a piece of paper on his desk.

_You’ve been chosen_, it says.

“Ah,” he says, rather delicately. “I think I see what’s happened. There’s a sort of… secret society that want me to join.”

I know exactly what secret society he’s talking about. It’s called The Bullingdon Club, and every shit politician in the last century has been in it. Apparently, one of the entry requirements is that you have to burn a fifty pound note in front of a homeless man.

_“Of course_ you’re in the Bullingdon,” I mutter.

“I’m not in it.”

“So they broke into our room and destroyed my things…why? To make you happy? They thought it might make you laugh to see me suffer?”

Baz glances into my bedroom.

“I think they thought your room was mine.”

I scoff.

“Please. As if anyone could ever mistake my things with yours.”

“Can I…?” he gestures towards my room. I stand aside, puzzled, as he enters to survey the damage. He picks up one of the mutilated books and whistles. “They’ve done a thorough job of it, haven’t they?”

He’s holding my copy of Oliver Twist. I bought it for two pounds at Oxfam. Someone had already scribbled all over it, but it was still mine. So few things in my life have been mine.

It’s ripped in half.

“I suppose you think this is funny,” I say.

“I’ve told you to lock your door when you leave.”

“I forgot, okay?”

“Evidently.”

“Don’t you dare turn this on me, when it’s your twatty friends who’ve done this! Why the fuck would you want to be part of a club like this?”

“I don’t.”

I laugh.

“Yeah, right. You love it. All that elitist bullshit, you lap it up.”

“Look, Snow, I’m sorry about your books. Let me know how much they cost and I’ll reimburse you.”

“It’s not about the money!”

He raises an eyebrow. Of course it’s about the money.

“Fine,” he says, lightly. “I won’t bother, then.”

I feel myself blush. I’m going to need to replace the books, and I definitely don’t have that kind of cash.

“Fuck you, Pitch.”

“For an English student, your insults are surprisingly limited.” He strides out of my room, pausing at the threshold. “Lock your door when you’re out. This isn’t Canada.”

“That’s called victim blaming, Pitch, and it’s really fucking outdated!” I shout after him.

He only smirks.

**Baz**

He spat on me. He actually spat on me. Like I was some kind of monster.

In fairness, I would spit on someone if they did that to my books.

Christ, I need to talk to Dev.

I go outside to make the call. Our bedrooms aren’t soundproof, as I learnt in a variety of unpleasant ways, starting on our first night.

Simon walked in looking like some sort of wet dream, all sweaty and moley and, I don’t know, _Simon_, although I didn’t realise what that meant yet. I tried to smile at him, but it was probably more of a sneer, to be honest. Force of habit. When you’re gay in a boy’s boarding school, you quickly learn to be cruel to anyone you fancy. Just easier that way.

He glowered back at me.

“I’m Pitch,” I said.

“Pitch? What kind of name is that? I’m Simon. Simon Snow.”

“Pitch is my surname, idiot.”

Did I mention the being-cruel-to-people-you-fancy thing?

“Oh.” He frowned. “So what’s your full name?”

“Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.”

He stared at me, open-mouthed.

“Don’t look at me like that. At least I don’t sound like a bastard on Game of Thrones.”

He shut his mouth sharply.

“Fuck you, Pitch,” he said. The first of many. (How was I to know he was some kind of Dickensian orphan, and would take the word “bastard” so _personally_?) Then he went into his bedroom and called someone and complained loudly about how I was an insufferably posh git and probably bought my way into Oxford. I tried to read, but it was sort of distracting, listening to a boy I was already imagining in a wedding tux talk about how what a wanker I was.

Then there were all the times I had to listen to him have sex with Wellbelove. They’re pretty quiet, actually, but it isn’t _pleasant_.

Dev picks up on the first ring.

“Hallo mate, come to whinge about what we did to your room?”

“It wasn’t my room, it was my suite mate’s room, and he’s rather put out about it.”

“It was definitely your room. It was rammed full of tedious Victorian novels.”

I sigh. Trust Dev not to know the difference between my carefully curated collection of first editions and Snow’s depressing assortment of second-hand Penguin paperbacks.

“He’s an English student, Dev.”

“Ah, shit. Now we need to break in again.”

“I’m not joining, Dev. Give it up. I’m serious.” I hang up, even though I know the phone call has accomplished nothing.

I keep thinking of Simon’s face as he looked at all his destroyed books. Like he was watching his house burn down.

I wish he would take my money. You’re not allowed to have a job during Oxford term time, so I know he struggles financially. I’ve never seen him eat anything outside the dining hall, and that’s paid for by his student loan. But I know that he won’t take it, not after what he said. He’s so fucking proud. And gorgeous. What? Ahem.

I have a crazy idea, a wild, late night idea that’s not suitable for the afternoon. It’s the kind of idea I usually have when I can’t sleep at night, and start thinking, _“Maybe people would like me more if I wasn’t such a dick all the time. Maybe I could take Mordelia out to a concert. Maybe I could actually hug my stepmother, stop making her feel so bloody inadequate. Maybe I could ask Aunt Fiona how’s she’s been since her boyfriend died, instead of avoiding talking about it.”_ Then I fall asleep, and in the morning, I feel faintly embarrassed by my earnest, late-night self.

This is one of those embarrassing, earnest ideas.

I could give Simon one of my books. My copy of Oliver Twist. It’s a stunning edition. My mother gave it to me. (He can’t possibly want it as badly as I want it. But then, I want to give it to him so badly.) I don’t know, it could be a sort of peace offering, couldn’t it?

I go back to my room before I can think too hard, find my Oliver Twist, and scribble “I’m sorry” on a post-it note. Then I go to his door. I can hear him complaining about me on the phone. (He’s always complaining about me. I suppose in some sense it’s flattering, but really it makes me feel pretty shit about myself. I’ve been quiet as a mouse in my room all year because I’m terrified he’ll find out I’ve heard everything he’s said. I’m not sure why that idea is so embarrassing— maybe because then he might pity me, which makes my skin crawl. Pity is so far from what I want him to feel for me.)

I open the book at the fly-leaf.

“I love you, Baz. Mummy”

My stomach twists. Maybe I should keep it. I only have a handful of books from my mother. But I can’t seem to help myself. I really do want Simon to have it. It’s a beautiful edition, and he deserves that.

I think about knocking, but in the end I just leave the book on the floor outside his door and scurry back to my bedroom like a coward.

**Simon**

It’s the most passive-aggressive apology gift I’ve ever seen. Really? A book about an unwanted orphan? And it’s the fanciest edition, too. The pages are gold. It couldn’t be clearer that he thinks all _my_ books are shite. There’s a message on the flyfleaf from his mother. Must be nice, to feel so secure in your parents’ love that you just fucking give it away to make other people feel bad about themselves.

**Baz**

He gives me the silent treatment for the next few days. Honestly, it’s unnerving. Finally, I work up the courage to ask him about my gift.

“Snow?”

“What?” He doesn’t look up from his laptop.

“Did you get the book I left you?”

“Yep. Sold it.”

My stomach seems to drop out through me.

“You what?”

“Sold it to that rare books place on St Aldates. For two hundred pounds. Blimey, I knew you were rich, but I didn’t know you were casually-give-away-two-hundred-pound-books-to-people-you-hate rich.”

“You really sold it?”

He turns around, looking at me with something like an accusation.

“I had to buy next week’s texts,” he says.

“Right. Very studious of you.”

“You gave it to me, didn’t you? It was mine to do what I liked with.”

“Yes, Snow.” I snap my laptop shut.

“God, I’d have given it back if I knew you’d be so pissy about it.”

I can feel how cold and unpleasant my face has become. I don’t want it to look like that. It’s just how it goes when I’m trying to hold myself together.

“You were well-within your rights, Snow. Please feel free to sell all and any future gifts from me.”

“Where are you going?” he asks. I sneer at him, confused. What does he care?

“None of your business.”

When I get to the rare books shop on St Aldates, I buy back my mother’s book for three hundred and fifty pounds.

_This is why you shouldn’t act on your earnest ideas, Baz. _

**Simon**

“He was weird about it, I’m telling you.”

I’m lying on my bed, talking to Penny on the phone, while Baz types his essay up in the next room. It’s hard with the time difference—Penny’s at Yale. We’ve been friends since we were kids. She’s the one who pushed me to apply to Oxford in the first place.

“Weird how?”

“I don’t know, just weird. He was all ‘You really sold it?’ Like he couldn’t believe the depths to which I’d sunk. As if _he’s_ ever had to sell something he wanted to keep.”

“So you wanted to keep it?”

“Well, yeah. It was gorgeous.” _And it was Baz’s._ The thought comes, unbidden, and I frown at the ceiling. It’s not like owning Baz’s stuff will make me handsome and brilliant and funny like him.

“Maybe you hurt his feelings.”

I laugh.

“Pitch doesn’t have _feelings_.”

“Everyone has feelings, Simon. Don’t dehumanise him.”

“I’m not sure he even is human. He never eats. He probably just feasts on the blood of the oppressed.”

Penny’s timer goes off.

“Okay, wrap it up,” she says.

“Wait, that’s not fair, I didn’t tell you that he’s been shedding hair all over the sofa because he’s taken to putting it up in a bun—”

“When the timer goes off, your Baz Pitch bitching session is over. We’ve talked about this.”

“Fine. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

The next day, I spot his satchel by his door. He’s left the flap open, and his copy of Oliver Twist is sticking out.

“Pitch,” I say. He looks up from his legal textbook. So boring. “Did you buy that back?” I point at the book.

“Oh,” he says. He reaches over and shuts the bag with his foot. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“My mother gave it to me,” he says. His voice is suspiciously casual.

“So? That didn’t stop you giving it away.”

He turns back to his desk, scrunching his long, elegant fingers into his silky hair. (I’m not sure when I started noticing things like that about Baz. Probably the instant I met him, and he looked like a goddamn Evelyn Waugh character, just waiting to inspire the next generation of novelists. And then made me feel about an inch tall.)

“I don’t know, Snow, I thought you’d like it. If I’d known you’d be so bloody mercenary about it I would have just given you a check and saved myself some time and money.”

“You can’t just buy your way out of everything, Pitch.”

He sighs.

“You’re impossible, Snow. You know that?”

Did he really just give it to me because he thought I’d like it?


	2. Tea and Mojitos

**Baz**

Fuck him. (_Can I, please?_) No, really, this is stupid. University was supposed to be my time. My time to hook up with tons of guys and be, you know, fun for once.

(“You need a good shag,” said Aunt Fiona. “Please stop,” I told her.) (But she’s absolutely right.)

Instead, I instantly fall head over heels with the first hot straight guy I see. Might as well never have left Eton.

Thing is, it isn’t just that he’s fit. It’s that he’s brave. I can imagine him waving a sword around and leading men into battle. He says what he thinks; the meaning doesn’t get lost somewhere between his brain and his tongue. His face reflects his feelings. He’s earnest and passionate and such a bloody good friend. Not to me, of course, but I hear him with Penny. One time, she called him in floods of tears because someone had said something racist to her. I thought Simon was going to blow up. I sat frozen in our sitting room, wondering what it would have been like to have someone like Simon at school with me. It wasn’t easy being one of only five people of colour; kids were always saying nasty shit to me. It never occurred to me to expect any better, until I heard Simon blazing on the phone, telling Penny things no one ever told me.

Then he made some remark about my widow’s peak, so I put on headphones. I’m a bit insecure about my hair.

I suppose I should have expected to see him at the slam poetry night. It’s a very English student-y scene. The Law students tend to go to events like “Port and Politics” or debates about Aung San Suu Kyi (“Pro, or against?”). But I didn’t want to do Law. I desperately wanted to do English. My father had other ideas, of course. Sometimes when I hear Simon moaning about having to read Middlemarch in two days or whatever, I just want to scream.

Anyway, I’m at the bar when he gets on stage. He licks his lips nervously, and for a second I worry that he’ll be bad, that he’ll embarrass himself, and I’m scared for him. But then he starts talking.

He’s brilliant.

It’s a devastating poem, about how he doesn’t know his real birthday. Social services just picked one for him, and every day he wonders, Is this my real birthday? Is this? Is this? Especially, he says, on the worst days. He wonders if his birthday was the worst day of his mother’s life.

He looks in my direction at one point, and his voice does this beautiful broken thing to match his beautiful broken words. I hate the poem. I wish I could give him his birthday back. I wish I could give him all the extra things I never needed or appreciated. I wish I could give him anything at all.

**Simon**

I’m on stage when I see him. I stutter through the rest of the poem, shocked. What’s Baz doing at a slam poetry night? Is he following me? Planning on mocking me for the rest of my life?

I get off stage and make my way to the bar. Baz is sitting five stools down. He catches my eye and pushes a drink down the length of the bar, like they do in movies._ So cool._ I nod at him and take a sip.

It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. It’s sweet and lime-y with a soft tang of alcohol.

“Simon! Congratulations!”

It’s Agatha. She kisses me on the lips. When I look up, Baz has gone. I wonder if he knows that this is my first ever cocktail.

I stay out late, drinking, and stumble home at about 4 in the morning.

Baz is sitting on the sofa, reading with a pencil in his hand.

He never seems to sleep. He’s always up, no matter what time I come home. He looks like shit. He always looks like shit, at night, sort of wired and delicate. I mean, I say shit—it makes him go from leading-man good looking to 90s heroine-chic good-looking. He’s still always good looking, the fucker.

I clumsily fill the kettle with enough water to make two cups of tea. I’m not sure why. Maybe because I’m drunk. Maybe because of how delicious that drink was. He didn’t have to buy me one. I wonder if he’s going to make fun of my poem now; or just ignore it. It was pretty personal.

“I liked your poem,” he says. “It was good.”

“Yeah, well, unlike some people, I actually got into Oxford on merit,” I say, instinctively responding to the insult I thought was coming.

His gaze drops back to his book. Now that I’m closer, I can see it’s not a law textbook. It’s a Thomas Hardy novel. Weird.

“What was that drink you got me called?” I ask, speaking more gently this time.

“A mojito.” I nod.

“Why are you still up, anyway?” I ask.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Plagued by nightmares, are you? You’re such a cliche.”

He looks up at me with steady grey eyes and I feel like a dick.

“Sorry,” I say, rubbing my neck. “Is it actually nightmares?”

He nods.

“That’s shit.”

He twists his mouth but doesn’t say anything. I hand him a cup of tea, strong and milky, just like he likes it. (I’ve watched him make tea a thousand times.)

“For me?” he asks, surprised.

“Unless you don’t want it.”

“No, no, I do. I’m cold.” His fingers brush against mine as he takes the mug. They’re freezing.

“So,” I say, sitting on the far end of the couch beside him. “What are your nightmares about?”

His eyes flick over to me, and back to his book. Fuck. I’m disturbing him. He just wants to read Tess of the D’Urbervilles._ (Weird.) _

“You must have worked really hard to get into Oxford,” he says.

“What, because I’m so thick?” I bristle.

“No, because it’s easier for people like me to get in, isn’t it? We had all the right training.”

“Yeah, well, the whole system’s fucked. When the proletariat rise up, your head will be on a pike, Pitch.”

“You’d like that,” he says. He looks a little unhappy, so I change the subject.

“That mojito was really good.”

He laughs. It’s a lovely sound, all fond and gentle.

“You’re such a child, Snow. Give you some sugar and your defences crumble. That proletariat uprising of yours is doomed; I’ll just hand over a chocolate bar and you’ll scurry back to the slums.”

“Fuck off.”

He shrugs and goes back to his room.

I realise, as he leaves, that I didn’t really mean for him to go.

**Baz **

Wellbelove is breaking up with Simon in his bedroom.

“But… can I still stay at yours for Christmas?”

I can practically hear Wellbelove’s outrage. (She and I made out at the Feather’s Ball when we were thirteen. If that girl’s straight, I’ll eat my hat.)

“Simon! Can’t you see that this is why we have to break up? The only thing you’re upset about is not having somewhere to go for the holidays!”

I’d never thought of that. Where will he go over the vac? He can’t stay at Oxford; they let our rooms in the holidays, and since he’s 18 they won’t take him back into care.

“I love you, Aggie.”

I scowl at my casebook.

“I love you too, Simon. But not in that way, and I don’t think you do either.”

“So…could I stay with you for a week? Maybe after Christmas?”

“No, Simon! We need some distance!”

She leaves a few minutes later. I hear Simon call Penny. I gather she’s staying stateside, and he doesn’t feel comfortable inviting himself to her house without her.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I have another friend who I can ask.”

But he doesn’t. I know he doesn’t.

**Simon **

I’ve been staring blankly at my laptop for about half an hour, trying to write 2000 words about tranquility in Jane Eyre (wut) but really just thinking about the holidays. I guess Agatha’s right. I’m not upset about her breaking up with me at all, except for the whole I’ll-be-homeless-for-four-weeks thing. I wonder if I can get away with sleeping in the library. But where will I shower?

Baz clears his throat.

“Fuck off,” I say automatically.

“You know how you hate me because I’m a posh twat?” he says.

“Yeah?”

“Well.” He swivels around to look at me. He’s fiddling with his hair. If he were someone else, I would think he was nervous. “Well, posh twats live in posh houses. With lots of empty bedrooms.”

“Are you high? Do I need to take you to the nurse?” I’m not joking. He looks concussed.

“Stay with me over the holidays, Snow.”

“What??”

“You’ll barely have to see me at all. We can put you in another wing of the house.”

I can feel the anger rising up in me.

“Have you… have you been _listening to my conversations_?”

He blushes.

“I would hardly call it listening, Snow. It’s more like I can’t avoid hearing them. Didn’t anyone ever tell you to use your inside voice?”

No they fucking didn’t because no one ever cared enough.

“What the hell is your problem?” I explode. “You’ve been _eavesdropping_ on me—”

He makes a sound I can’t translate.

“Eavesdropping? You think I like hearing you talk about how much you hate me all the time? About how I look like shit when I don’t sleep, and my nose starts too high up on my face, and I don’t have any real friends? There are things you can’t _unhear_, you know!”

I’m stunned into silence. His hand has gone to his nose, as if to cover it, I don’t think he realises he’s doing it. I feel awful. And it’s stupid, because his nose is gorgeous. I thought he was so good looking that he couldn’t possibly be insecure. I thought he was indestructible.

He turns away from me and bends his head over his textbook.

“I…I wouldn’t want to impose,” I say, in a small voice.

“Clearly, I have not impressed upon you the full scale of my wealth,” he says, coldly. “Trust me. You could stay for a year and no one would mind.”

“I like your nose,” I say.

“If you ever speak to me with pity in your voice again, I will plant drugs in your room and get you expelled.”

“Can I really stay at your house over the holidays?”

“Yes.”

It’s like 80% of my brain has just freed up. I was so worried about what I was going to do that I was having trouble thinking straight.

“Baz…”

His shoulders make an almost imperceptibly small movement.

“Thank you,” I say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so encouraged to find anyone reading my stuff (like, willingly... not my friends doing me favours lol) that I went and wrote the next chapter right away! Lmk what you think!


	3. Piccadilly

**Simon**

He wasn’t joking about his house being huge. It’s a fucking _castle_.

“It’s not a castle,” he says, sounding bored, as we get out of the taxi. (He paid for it. And the train tickets. He just booked them, and when I asked how much they were he said he couldn’t remember.)

“It has turrets.”

“It’s Victorian neo-Gothic. It’s not a castle.”

“Does it have ghosts?”

He casts me a nasty look.

“Oh my God. It totally has ghosts.”

“It has _one_ ghost. Supposedly. And if you don’t stop banging on about my house, you might find yourself joining her.”

“Was that a murder threat? Baz, mate, you can’t just murder your guests. Even I know that’s not on.”

He smiles at me and rolls his eyes, looking so laid back that I almost feel like we’re friends.

An elderly old woman opens the front door. His grandmother?

“Master Basil!” she cries.

Oh. A servant. Right.

A beautiful, perfectly dressed woman comes floating down the stairs.

“Basil! How are you?”

“Well, thank you, how are you?” he asks, and puts out his cheek, which she pretends to kiss. It’s hard to imagine her writing “I love you, Baz. Mummy” in a book and giving it to him.

“Wonderful. This must be Simon?”

“Hello Mrs Pitch!”

It’s like all the air goes out of the room. Baz’s mum looks stricken.

“Oh,” she says.

“It’s Grimm, not Pitch,” says Baz. “I took my mother’s last name.”

“Wicked. Very feminist,” I say uncertainly. Baz’s stepmother (I guess?) still looks like I’ve broken some unspeakable taboo.

“You can just call me Daphne,” she says.

“Thanks,” I grin. She seems nice, even though I’m mystified by the way they’re all treating divorce like they’re actual Victorians.

The housekeeper leads us deep into the house and puts me in a room opposite Baz’s.

“Let me know if you need anything,” she says, and leaves me alone in the most sumptuous bedroom I’ve ever seen outside of a Disney movie. I don’t know where to put my bag down, because the carpet is cream, and the chintz chairs are pale blue, and the bedspread is silk, and I feel like if I touch anything it will probably just spontaneously combust. I’m still hovering, holding my bag, when there’s a knock at the door.

“Yes?”

Baz pokes his head in. He sees that I’m still holding my bag, and a strange expression crosses his face. A month ago, I would have thought it was a sneer, but I’m starting to think it might just be what he looks like when something’s hurting him.

“Right, I thought you wouldn’t like this room,” he says. “We can move you to another part of the house, so you can have more space.”

“More space? Baz, this room is bigger than… than…” I want to say something like “My whole apartment!” But I’ve never lived in an apartment, only in dorms. “It’s huge,” I finish.

“You don’t mind that it’s across the hall from mine?”

Oh. That’s why he looked hurt. Wait, why would it hurt his feelings if I didn’t want to spend time with him? Does he want to spend time _me_? I can almost hear Penny’s voice in my head. “Oh, Simon, why else would he have invited you to spend Christmas at his house?” But she’s wrong. He invited me because he pitied me, not because he likes my company.

I realise I still haven’t answered, and he’s looking colder and more distant by the second.

“No, I—I’d rather be close to you,” I say. “I’ll feel lost otherwise, I think.”

He smiles. Blimey. Maybe he does want to spend time with me. Why? What do I have to offer someone like him?

“Put your bag down, Snow, and I’ll have Vera bring a tray of food to my room.”

“That’s the poshest thing you’ve ever said.”

“You’re going to have to get used to it.”

“Uh, Baz—where can put my bag? I don’t want to get anything dirty.”

There: _that_ expression is pity.

“Anywhere, Snow. It doesn’t matter if you get anything dirty. You should see how filthy the Duke of Sutherland is when he comes to stay. Mysterious stains all over the curtains; I think he stands at the window and wanks over the gardeners.”

"Oh, good to know that’s allowed.”

He laughs, and I find myself thinking that I would do anything to make him laugh like that again.

**Baz**

We end lying on our stomachs on my bed watching a Hugh Grant movie. He’s never seen it before and laughs loudly at every joke. He makes me feel awake; alive. I keep sneaking glances at him when he laughs because it’s so marvellous. Twice he catches my eye and grins. Is this what it’s like to be friends with Simon Snow? Joy and laughter and fondness? It’s surreal, seeing him in my childhood home, where I was always so lonely and miserable. He doesn’t belong here._ I_ don’t belong here.

He keeps calling me Baz. He hasn’t called me Pitch since I asked him to come stay. It still makes me feel a bit giddy every time he says my name.

Christ, I need to reign it in. If I make him uncomfortable he has nowhere to go. I can’t make him uncomfortable. He’s straight, for God’s sakes. (Although he keeps saying how hot Hugh Grant is. But maybe Hugh Grant transcends the straight/gay divide, I don’t know.)

No, I bet Snow’s the sort of guy who’s so confident in his heterosexuality that he cuddles all his male friends. I need to take some precautions. I don’t think I can handle that kind of friendship with Simon Snow. And I really, really don’t want to make him feel uncomfortable.

**Snow**

It’s companionable and easy, the kind of hang out I haven’t had since Penny left the UK. I hadn’t realised how much I was craving just having a _friend_ until now.

The credits roll, and I turn onto my side to look at Baz. He watches me warily, and sits up, leaning against a bedpost.

“How come you didn’t tell me your parents were divorced?” I ask.

“They’re not divorced,” he says. His face grows cruel and sharp. I try not to take it personally.

“Okay,” I say, leaving a blank space for him to fill. He pulls one knee up to his chest. The other long, shapely leg is stretched out before him. I could reach out and touch his ankle if I wanted. (Not that I want to.) (Do I?)

“My mother’s dead,” he says, conversationally.

A pit of shame opens inside me.

I sold his book. His book his mother gave him, that had her love in it. I suddenly remember the way he looked at me when he said “You really sold it?” At the time, I thought it was disdain. Now I realise it was anguish. I made him feel that. He tried to give me something important to him, and I fucking sold it.

“Stabbed to death on the tube,” he goes on. “Victoria line. Completely spoiled Piccadilly for me. I get flashbacks when I go, it’s very embarrassing, it makes a whole scene. I suppose if I just kept going there I’d get over it eventually, I mean, it’s been three years—”

He’s babbling. He sounds so normal; if I had my eyes closed I might think he was fine, but he’s crying. I don’t know what to do.

“You were there?” I ask.

“Yes. Got stabbed a bit myself, actually, right in the neck.”

Suddenly, he draws his other leg to his chest and buries his face in his knees. I go to put my arm around him and he leaps from the bed, wiping at his cheeks.

“God, I’m a mess,” he says. “Sorry, Snow, I suppose Hugh Grant makes me sentimental. You must think I’m pathetic.”

“Of course I don’t think that.”

He’s scowling down at the carpet. He’s so handsome. I just want to kiss the misery off his mouth. Wait, what?

“I’ve been such a dick to you, Baz,” I mumble, because I need to say something right now that isn't _Wait I think I like you_.

“Don’t you dare try to take all the credit, Snow. We’re both insufferable.”

“I sold your book.”

He shakes his head.

“No, don’t. Don’t. You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known.”

“It was so gorgeous, it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever touched with my hands—”

“Look, you needed the money. I’m glad you sold it.”

“I knew it was from your mum—”

“What kind of psychopath goes around giving their murdered mother’s possessions to people without warning them? It was absolutely on me, Snow, you mustn’t think twice about it.”

“Why _did_ you give it to me?”

Baz laughs unpleasantly, the kind of laugh that used to make me want to punch him. I don’t like it at all. But I try to have faith in him. I’ve been so consistently wrong about him and his motivations.

“I told you, Snow. I thought you’d like it.”

“I did like it,” I say, quietly.

“Look, clear out, will you? I’m exhausted.”

I get off the bed, go to the door. Baz is leaning his forehead into his arm against the mantlepiece.

“Is that what your nightmares are about? Piccadilly?”

He nods.

“Will you wake me up if you have one tonight?”

“No.”

“I wish you would.”

“Go the fuck to bed, Snow.”

“Baz?”

I really don’t want to leave him. I really want to kiss him. I really want to force him to listen to a long list of compliments I’m only just realising I’ve been composing in my head ever since I met him.

“Let me guess. You’re sorry about my mother? Is that it?”

“You’re a piece of work, Baz,” I say, laughing. “No. I mean, yes, of course I’m sorry about your mother. But it’s more…thank you for telling me. Really.”

I think he might hit me if I go on, so I give him a tight smile and slip away to my enormous, empty bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for commenting on the last two chapters, it's so encouraging!


	4. Baz is scandalised and also definitely a duke

**Simon**

The next day, Baz acts as if nothing happened. I meet his sister, Mordelia, at breakfast. She’s terrifying.

“Were you at Eton?” she demands.

“No.”

“All Baz’s friends went to Eton.”

“Then I guess I can’t be Baz’s friend.”

She examines me coolly.

“No, I guess not.”

“Lay off him, Mord,” says Baz. He seems to have given up on finishing his piece of toast.

“He’s not like your other friends, that’s all,” says Mordelia.

Of course I’m not. They probably all party with Prince Harry and have horses.

“I like him better,” she says.

I grin at Baz. He shrugs.

After breakfast, he suggests we go to the library.

“Sure. I’ll just get my shoes.”

“Not a public library, Snow.”

“You have a library in your house?”

“Snow, if you had as much money as I did, wouldn’t you have a library in your house?”

“Fair.”

But I was not expecting this.

**Baz**

Simon loses his mind at the sight of our library.

“Baz. Baz. It’s like that scene in Beauty and the Beast.”

“Who’s the beast in this scenario?” I say, although I know full well what he’s going to say.

“You are, obviously."

“I refuse.”

“You’re a sinister mystery, skulking around a castle. I’m the innocent young ingenue who’s come to melt your heart.”

This is all hitting rather close to home. I scowl.

“It’s not a castle.”

But Snow is too happy to be put off. He scampers around the library, pulling out books and exclaiming over them.

In the afternoon, I drag him outside for a walk through the grounds. He goes a bit funny when the gardener calls me “My lord”.

“Are you a duke, Baz?” he asks.

“No,” I say, as if that’s a ridiculous question. Then I sigh. “I’m a Viscount. I’ll eventually inherit the Dukedom.”

He crows.

“I knew it! I knew you were an evil duke!”

“I’m not evil, and I’m not a duke!”

“Conniving, sneaky duke. I knew it. You give off a very ducal vibe.”

“Shut up.”

**Simon**

Dinner is in this sort of banquet hall, and it feels like everyone is pretending to be on Downton Abbey. Or maybe Downton Abbey is pretending to be Baz’s family?

His dad is terrifying. He tells me to call him Malcom. The butler calls him “Your Grace.” Baz is quiet, picking at his food, while Mordelia and Daphne chatter away. Malcom barely says a word. He’s drawn and tired, and keeps glancing over at me.

“So, Basil,” he says, when dessert is taken away. “Is Simon your boyfriend?”

Baz goes bright red, but to my surprise he doesn’t look angry or dismissive.

“No,” he says, staring at his father. It feels like they’re having some kind of significant moment. (I’m having a significant moment. Baz is gay?) “No, but thank you for asking.”

Malcom dips his head. Daphne reaches over and squeezes his hand. Why is everything in this household a Harold Pinter play?

Baz doesn’t say anything more at dinner, but he’s grinning all over the place, and he laughs at everything Mordelia says, like he’s giddy. When dinner is cleared away, Baz grabs a bottle of champagne and some snacks.

“Come on, Snow, we’re celebrating.”

“What are we celebrating?”

He doesn’t answer; he just takes me outside, to this sort of fake Greek ruin by a lake. I can’t believe he’s inheriting all this. I didn’t even inherit a last name. (That’s why it got me, when Baz instantly made that Game of Thrones joke the first time we met. I feel a reluctant kinship with Jon Snow.)

Baz stretches a blanket out on the ground and pops the champagne with a whoop. I’ve never seen him like this.

“Baz, what was that, at dinner? With your dad.”

“_That_ is what we’re celebrating. My dad acknowledging that I’m gay.”

He catches sight of my face as he hands me my glass of champagne. (Trust Baz to bring crystal champagne glasses to a spontaneous moonlight picnic.)

“Shit,” he says. “Did it make you uncomfortable? Fuck. You didn’t know, did you? Do you mind?”

“What? Of course I don’t mind, you idiot. I’m pretty sure I’m bi, anyway.”

Baz chokes on his champagne. I thump him on the back.

“What?” he splutters. “Do mine ears deceive me?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, you get to be gay, but I’m not allowed to be bi?”

“Snow, you’re the last bastion of heterosexuality. If you’re bi, the gay agenda has finally been achieved.”

“Well, congratulations on the achievement.”

I really feel like we should be talking about the whole thing with his dad, but he seems much more interested in my confession.

“How long have you known?” he asks.

_Since yesterday, when you cried and I wanted to kiss your face off. Since this morning, when I thought “I bet I could get you to call me Simon if I sucked your dick just right.” _

“It’s just something I’ve been thinking about, lately,” I shrug.

He whistles.

“The Oxford gays are going to eat you up,” he says.

“Are you very involved in the gay scene?”

He shakes his head.

“I haven’t had many opportunities to experiment.”

“Me neither,” I say.

“We’ll have to experiment together.” He burns bright red. He’s so fucking sexy when he blushes. “I mean, at the same time. Not together.”

“Well…” I don’t even let myself think. I just let the words tumble out. “We _could_ experiment together.”

The hand bringing Baz’s champagne glass to his lips freezes. He looks like cut glass himself. Crap. Crap crap crap. I fancy him for six seconds and instantly throw myself at his feet. Just because he’s into guys doesn’t mean he’s into me. “I mean, just casually,” I hasten to add. “No strings attached. Just casual sex.”

** Baz**

Has Simon ever met me? When do I ever do anything casually, let alone sex?

Simon wants to have _sex_ with me?

I think I must be drunk. I think he must be drunk.

“Snow, are you trashed? What’s going on?”

“No, come on, hear me out.” He scoots to face me. “We’re just two gay boys looking for some fun. We’re stuck in a Victorian castle for four weeks. You’re fit. I’m not bad looking. Why not?”

“Snow, I—” _He thinks I’m fit?_ “Do you ever pause to think about the consequences of your actions? Where are you supposed to go when it all goes tits up in four days?”

“Four days! Thanks for the vote of confidence, mate.”

“I’m scandalised you’re even suggesting this.”

“So… just to check. You don’t want us to fuck.”

He can’t go around saying things like this. He’s going to give me a heart attack. And of course I want it, I want anything he’s willing to give me, even if it would shatter me to be handled so lightly. But I can’t allow him to hurt me now, over the holidays, where he would be trapped if anything went wrong. I can’t let him hurt me while there’s a chance he might hurt himself.

“I don’t think we should sleep together, no,” I say.

“Aha!” He points his finger at me. I bat it away. “‘Don’t think we should’ is not the same as ‘don’t want’! Admit it. You’re a little tempted.”

“I’m not sleeping with you while you’re trapped at my house. You’re not my kept mistress.”

Simon looks smug.

“But you want to, though.”

I’m trying not to smile.

“Talk to me when we’re back in Oxford,” I say. He looks gleeful.

“Oh, I will,” he says.

God, I hope I'm not missing my one and only chance to kiss Simon Snow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am procrastinating on everything else in my life bc I just want to get to the nice bit where they can be happy togetherrrrr


	5. Nightmares

**Simon**

I should be embarrassed. Pretty sure it’s embarrassing to offer someone sex and have them refuse. But Baz isn’t awkward about it at all. And he didn’t _really_ refuse.

Plus, it’s impossible to feel anything but buoyant at the moment, because of how Baz is behaving.

Over the next few days, he giggles. He quotes poetry. He asks questions like “Did you ever believe in magic?”

He seems _happy_. It’s disgustingly lovable. It shouldn’t be allowed. It’s actually quite painful, because I know how out of my league he is, and after Agatha, I’m not doing that again. I don’t like being someone’s rebellion boyfriend.

Not that Baz would go out with me even as a rebellion. He has standards. He’s not going to date someone like me. He can’t even fancy me that much, or else we would be hooking up by now (Lord knows I made it clear enough that I want to).

But the fact he fancies me even a little bit is so, so flattering.

**Baz **

Fiona shows up in the second week of the holidays. Simon and I are in the kitchen; I’m making him chocolate spread sandwiches while he sits on the aga, reading me Dickens. (I’m so fucking in love with him.)

“I thought Mordelia was making it up!” says Fiona.

This does not bode well.

“Hello, Fiona. Just dropping by for a _quick_ and _fleeting_ visit, I hope?”

“No, I’m staying the night. Mordelia told me that you had some sort of boy toy locked up in your bedroom.”

“Mordelia is certainly playing fast and loose with the facts. Snow, meet my poisonous Aunt Fiona. Fiona, meet my friendly acquaintance Simon Snow.”

“‘_Friendly acquaintance_?’” says Snow, outraged. He’s holding out a hand to Fiona, but she hasn’t taken it. She’s lighting a cigarette and watching him like a snake observing a mouse it will shortly devour.

“Are you two shagging, or not?” asks Fiona.

“Not,” says Simon, at the same time as I say “None of your business.”

“Not for lack of trying,” says Simon.

“Snow! Do not fraternise with the enemy!”

“Can he not get it up?” Fiona asks Simon, sympathetically. “You know, you’re gorgeous. You really deserve better than Old Man Baz over here.”

“Tell that to him,”says Simon, who appears to find all this hilarious instead of humiliating. “He’s been resisting my charms.”

Fiona opens her mouth, I assume to tell Simon about all the times I called her from the front quad of college to mope about how hopelessly in love I was with him, but then she spots my agonised expression and stops.

“Well, Baz is used to people throwing themselves at him,” she says.

_Thank you_, I mouth.

Simon looks abruptly serious and starts flipping through Bleak House.

**Simon**

How often do people throw themselves at Baz? Does he laugh about them to Fiona? Is he going to laugh about me?

I talk myself down. He’s my friend. (Does he realise that he’s my friend?) He’s not going to date me, but he’s not going to be a dick about it, either.

I can’t sleep, though.

I decide to see if he’s up; he’s always up, at Oxford. (Does this count as throwing myself at him? Probably. Not going to think about that.) I creep to the hallway and am reassured to see light spilling out from under his door.

“Baz?” I knock, and let myself in without waiting for an answer.

He’s curled up into himself against the headboard. It’s obvious he’s been crying, and he looks aggressive, like he’s challenging me to make fun of him. Then he sinks down into the bedcovers and turns his back to me.

**Baz**

I hear the door close.

Good. I can handle myself. I don’t need Snow to—

He climbs into bed behind me. I freeze. He wraps himself around me, spooning me, propped up on one elbow so that he can lean into my ear.

“Nightmare?” he whispers.

I nod. His hand goes to my hair, stroking it out of my face.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay. I’ll talk.”

What?

“You’re fun, Baz.” He keeps stroking my hair, he’s curled over me, cocooning me in… in whatever this is. Is he trying to have sex with me? _Now_? That must be what this is. “You’ve read more books than half the kids on my course. You’re so fucking smart. I feel like I get cleverer just talking to you. You’re such a good friend. You’re thoughtful. Your family love you to pieces.”

I can’t really think.

“You’re… like… stupid fit.”

_Ah_, I think. _Here it is_. But his hands stay where they are, in my hair.

“You’re cool and modest and compassionate. Your nose starts in exactly the right place.”

I snort, and I think I can hear him smile. Then—

“I’m sorry about your mother,” he whispers. “She must have been really proud of you.”

“Simon—” I have to stop for a second, to push past the lump in throat. “I can’t—just.”

“Okay,” says Simon, as if he understands the meaningless collection of syllables I just threw at him. And maybe he does, because he stops talking. He puts his head down on the pillow, his nose at my neck, and keeps stroking my scalp. “Is this okay?”

It takes me so long to answer that I’m sure he thinks I’m not going to.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s okay.”

**Simon **

When I wake up the next morning, Baz is already gone. I don’t know what I expected. _Baz is used to people throwing themselves at him._ He called me Simon, though, so he must have liked me holding him, a little bit. Probably not as much as I liked it, because I liked it a lot a lot.

But again, he proves that he’s able to weather any social awkwardness. Is this what they teach them at boarding school? How to pretend intimacy never happened? We go straight back to how we were before; going for walks and having tea and reading Victorian novels. He doesn’t mention the time I slept in his bed and told him he was cool and brilliant and gorgeous.

It doesn’t happen again.

Until about a week and half later.

**Baz **

I have the nightmare most nights, but it doesn’t usually bother me too much. I wake with a start, read for half an hour, and go back to bed. From time to time, however, the dream goes in a different way. More vivid. More clear that if I hadn’t been such a stupid, frightened, 16-year-old idiot I might have been able to save her. On those nights, it’s harder to get back to sleep. Which is fine. It’s fine. I’m used to it.

Only, the last time I had it this badly, Snow came to me like a miracle and filled my head with other thoughts.

I put it off for ages; ages and ages. It must be nearly four am by the time I reach for my phone and text him.

“Snow?”

It’s stupid because he’s definitely asleep. Tomorrow he’ll say, “Why did you text me at 4 am?” and I’ll have to come up with something.

I’m staring at the screen, although it’s burning my eyes.

My text ticks to read.

But he doesn’t answer.

I hadn’t thought of that; that I might reach out to him for comfort and get heartbreak instead. I need to be more careful.

But then the door opens and it’s him, looking half-asleep, and he gets into my bed.

“Nightmare?” he asks.

I wonder why else he thinks I might summon him to my room. Maybe he keeps hoping for a booty call.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Come here,” he says. He lies on his back and folds me into his chest. We tangle our legs together. “I’m so tired, I’m sorry,” he murmurs. I wonder how he saw my text when he was clearly not awake when I sent it.

"Is this okay?" he asks.

Again, it takes me almost a minute to reply.

"Yeah, it's okay."

He kisses my forehead and leaves his lips there as he falls asleep, wrapped around me.

**Simon**

This time, I wake up before him. I stare at him for a while and think about what it would be like to date Baz Pitch. If I married him, would that make me a duchess? There’s probably not a precedent for that. I’d take his name, though. It would be nice to have a real name, that belonged to a real family.

I snap my eyes shut as he stirs. He gently breaks away from me (I pretend to be asleep) and goes to have a shower. It reminds me of the fact that he’s just experimenting. We’re both just experimenting. It’s only confusing because we’re experimenting with friendship. Well, that, and because I’m crazy in love with him.

I know the deal by now, though. I go to my own room and shower. We meet downstairs for breakfast and everything is normal again; this new normal where Baz smiles all the time and makes jokes and one time ruffles my hair. I don’t want to go back to Oxford.

**Baz **

I don’t want to go back to Oxford.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, the classic bonding-through-nightmares trope! It's a wonder that well-adjusted people ever fall in love at all really. Thank you so much for reading and commenting, it's such lovely encouragement!!


	6. Oxford

**Simon**

Malcom is driving us back to Oxford. Baz and I wait by the Jaguar with our bags. It’s a cold, sunny day, and we’re awkward for the first time in four weeks. I think we’re both wondering what’s going to change, when we get back to uni. Something has to. I can’t keep up this chaste-friends charade, it’s driving me crazy.

“I would have slept with you,” I say.

“You did sleep with me, Snow. Twice.”

We’ve never spoken about it. It’s encouraging that he’s acknowledging it happened at all— those two nights where I poured love into him and hoped that would help.

“I would have had sex with you, then,” I say. “I would have let you do anything you wanted to me.”

He shifts his bag to his other shoulder, not looking at me.

“I know, Snow,” he says, softly.

“Did you just… not want to?” I ask, in a small voice.

He laughs.

“Uh, no,” he says. “No, I wanted to.”

He notices my staring. “It just felt…like you needed a friend more than you needed someone to fancy you.”

I bury my face in my hands.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Baz. You can’t just say things like that and expect me not to fall in love with you.”

“What did you just say?”

“All right, boys, get in the car!”

It’s Malcom. Baz is glaring at me. He gets into the front seat and I climb gratefully into the back, where I immediately pretend to fall asleep, hot-faced and ashamed.

“That boy went out like a light,” says Malcom, as we’re reaching Oxford.

“Yeah,” says Baz.

“I like him, Basil. I hope you’ll always feel comfortable bringing your… friends home.”

“Thank you, father.”

“Will he be coming for the Easter holidays?”

I try to keep my breathing calm and sleep-like.

“I don’t know,” says Baz, carelessly. “Probably not.”

I pretend to wake up when we get to college. Malcom helps us bring all our stuff back to our dorm.

Then he leaves.

“Baz, I shouldn’t have said—” I start, but I falter. Because Baz has crossed the room in two strides and is standing so close to me that our chests are almost touching.

“Said what?” he asks, dipping his nose down to nudge my cheek. I want to leave my hands at my sides the way he is doing, because that seems kind of cool and hard-to-get, but I can’t. I put my palm on his chest, and let my other hand scrape into his hair, cradling his skull.

“I shouldn’t have said…” He rests his forehead against mine. I have no idea what words I’m spewing. His arms go around my waist and tug me towards him. “Fuck,” I mutter.

“What shouldn’t you have said?” he prompts. He kisses the strange, nameless patch of skin between the corner of my mouth and my jaw. I’m making some truly embarrassing sounds.

“Baz,” I whine.

“It doesn’t seem to _me_,” he says, his lips trailing up the side my face to my ear, “as if you’ve said anything regrettable. But tell me. What is it you shouldn’t have said?”

“That I’m in love with you,” I whisper.

He breathes in sharply through his teeth and backs me into a wall. His expression is unreadable.

“Yes,” he says, kissing my eyes shut. “I can see why you’d regret saying that, if you didn’t mean it.”

“Kiss me,” I say.

He obeys instantly, as if he can’t help himself. I’ve wanted it for so long that I’m almost too shocked to respond, until suddenly all I can do is kiss him back, fiercely, pulling him closer and closer because I don’t want him to go.

**Baz **

Does he regret saying it because he didn’t mean it, or because he did? I’m so scared (it’s frightening to have something feel this good, because how will I live without it, _how_) but I’m always scared, never brave, he’s always the brave one, it’s my turn, he shouldn’t have to be all the time— I break away.

**Simon**

He stops kissing me and looks at the floor. Fuck. It’s over already. Maybe I should suggest break-up sex. God, I’m desperate.

“The thing is, Snow,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind his ears. “The thing is, I’ve been in love with you all along.”

**Baz **

His face cracks open in an expression of bald happiness.

“You have?”

I nod.

“Ever since I came to your house?”

“Before. Long before.”

“You were in love with me last term?”

“All right, Snow, calm down. Yes. I’ve been in unrequited love with you for months.”

He takes my face in his hands and kisses me.

“Yeah, but it’s not unrequited, is it?” he says, through kisses. “Because I love you too.”

__________________________________________

**Baz**

Simon keeps asking me what title he’ll get if he marries me. (None. The system is broken.)

“We’re not getting married, Snow.”

“Not _yet_.”

“You’re clingy, you know that?”

“Is it okay?”

“Yes. It’s okay.”

Sometimes he kisses the scar on my neck. At first when he did that, it felt like he was trying to heal it. Now it just feels like he wants to witness it. I like that. I like being witnessed.

**Simon**

Baz always insists that I have somewhere else to go over the holidays, although I end up staying at his every time.

“I want you to know you have other options,” he says.

It’s nice having options. It means I get to choose him.

“You can’t call ALL modern literature overrated,” says Penny. She’s at Oxford for her year abroad, and we’re lounging in Christchurch Meadows. I’m sitting between Baz’s legs, leaning back into his chest. He has his arms around me. In public. He loves me in public.

“I can and I will,” says Baz.

“That’s a ridiculous oversimplification,” says Penny.

“I don’t care. After WWII, culture fell off a cliff.”

“Simon, your boyfriend is a fossil. He’s never going to survive in the modern world.”

“I’ll take care of him,” I say. Baz kisses the side of my head.

“You guys are gross,” says Penny.

“Wow, Snow. You didn’t tell me Penny was a homophobe.”

Penny throws an empty packet of crisps at Baz. It’s great.

It’s all so great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap everybody! I'd love to hear your thoughts on what you guys like in a slow burn ending bc it's something I've been thinking about a lot for a novel I'm writing. 
> 
> I review books on instagram at @let_them_eat_books if anyone wants to see what I'm reading although atm I'm literally only reading snowbaz fanfic lol. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and commenting, each one makes me so happy!!

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic EVER so am v. nervous about it-- let me know what you think!


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